


to love, in spite of it all

by gabriphales



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Hurt/Comfort, I hate myself, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Past Child Abuse, Religious Guilt, everything else after that is simply implied, its really only described moderately explicitly in the first chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 17:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20261848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: aziraphale rarely thinks about his trauma. should the occasion arise, he often finds himself regretting having the ability to think whatsoever





	1. a merciful god

**Author's Note:**

> honestly, so much of this is just self-indulgent projection im so sorry

God wasn’t a tangible thing--She existed as more of an idea, a concept. A thing to believe in, entrust with all your vulnerable faith. And Aziraphale did believe. At least, he tried to. After all, God’s plan wasn’t something he was meant to understand. She had a place for him in this world, a purpose. And surely, she must be proud of him for all he got through. Like a loving mother. The mother he never had.

But if such was the case, if God really, truly, did care for her humans, with equally allocated benevolence, then why had she let him suffer? In fact, not just let--she had willfully ignored his pleas. Every little beg towards God, every prayer and question and please, just give me a sign went unanswered until he ceased to even try.

Aziraphale, as a moderately well-adjusted young adult at this point, did his best to not dwell on the unsightly parts of his childhood. Such memories were reserved for every-other-week therapy sessions. But that was the thing about trauma, it had an awfully funny way of creeping up on you when you least wanted it to. He could feel it as it spindled its way into every part of his life. How he handled arguments, confrontation, relationships, responsibility. He didn’t like thinking about it, but it demanded to be thought about.

And tonight, he was devoting quite a lot of thought time towards all the bullshit he’d had inflicted upon him when he was too young to understand what was wrong and what was right. Bruised knees and bloody palms from over-saturated corporal punishment. A belt decorated with the most delicately designed, gorgeous cross buckle. Passive aggressive glares mixed with verbal assaults. Degradation for stepping slightly out of line. He remembered it all. And all that, all that was done in the name of Her.

_Why didn’t you stop it?_ He asked The Nothingness that surrounded him. There was no point in asking God, she wouldn’t answer. She never did.

_Why didn’t you help me? I was only a child._

_Did I deserve it?_

Aziraphale shivers, standing up from the self-indulgent blanket cave he’d made himself on his sofa, and deciding to tidy up the house. It made for a good distraction.

_You used to clean the floors when they thought you’d been bad. You never got to take a break until everything was spotless. Even that time when you had a fever and you started crying because it was all too much. Nobody came to help you. Nobody cared. You were too weak then, and you’re still too weak now._

Maybe not, then. Maybe he’ll just go to bed, try to ignore the weight of his own mind.

_And now look at you! Disobeying everything they taught you. Sharing a bed with another man._

The thick tartan duvet provides little comfort without the presence of another body at his side. He wishes Crowley were here right now. Sweet, consoling, lovely Crowley. Oh, how he put up with listening to all of Aziraphale’s traumas, all of his fears and hopes and regrets. He never stopped listening, even when Aziraphale lost connection between his thoughts and his tongue, ending up rambling unintelligibly through teary-eyed sobs. He held his hand when Aziraphale asked him to, kissed his lips to silence self-loathing words. And sometimes, all that love was hard to comprehend. Crowley offered more than he felt he deserved. He didn’t know how he’d managed to get so lucky to have a person like him interested in all of his frumpy incoherence.

Maybe that was the gift God had bestowed upon him. An apology, for all the times she’d let him drown alone. Whatever it was, Aziraphale never failed to show his gratitude. Even after all he’d been through, he still prayed every morning. Just enough to give Her thanks. Just enough to feel like there was still some good in the world, looking out for everyone.

When Crowley finally came to bed, languishing after a long night’s shift, Aziraphale stirred from his sleep to greet him. They shared an incredibly drowsy, messy kiss. Crowley had to re-try three times so as to actually meet his mouth, not his chin or nose. Giggles replaced the sullen silence, a welcome intrusion on the heavily quiet atmosphere. 

_This, _ Aziraphale thought, _this is proof of Her Greatness. She wanted me to have this. So she gave it to me._

And even if Crowley had given up on any theistic possibilities a long time ago, he never failed to commend Aziraphale for his bravery in continuing to believe.


	2. empty space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crowley asks questions without thinking. aziraphale thinks too much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is all angsty so i want u to picture a big fluffy dog when ur done reading this bc u deserve some happiness after this bullshit

“How long has it been? Y’know, since you last talked to him.”

Aziraphale’s calm, tepid demeanor shifted as Crowley spoke. The question rolled around in his head like marbles off of a table, slamming onto the ground and cracking open on impact. How long had it been? Did he even remember, really? All that was so hard to remember. Any recollection of his childhood provided little more than bits and pieces of a hellish existence--one that had seemed quite normal at the time. 

His guardian, his caretaker (if you could really call him that, considering he very rarely cared for Aziraphale with any sense of sincerity,) had let him run off at fifteen. And of course, there had been searches. News reports that made his stomach ache with a unique kind of anxiety--the sort you only get when you feel you’re being watched--and the dreaded amber alert. All the commotion had, at some level, made Aziraphale wonder if Gabriel truly did give half a shit about his well being. Either that, or he was simply mad his favorite chew toy wasn’t around for him to gnaw on anymore.

Eventually, the family he’d been staying with--Crowley’s family--gave in, and told Gabriel of his whereabouts. At the time, Aziraphale had briefly considered faking his own death and running away to some place where nobody would ever find him. Paris, perhaps. They had good food there. He’d always wanted to try authentic brioche. But nothing ever came of that idea. Gabriel, in the end, hadn’t wanted him back. Aziraphale remembered listening in on his conversation with Crowley’s parents, eavesdropping through the kitchen phone. At the time, he’d thought he’d been being awfully sneaky. 

Gabriel spoke about him like he was a spare coffee mug left over at a friend’s house. The casual tone his voice took on hammering in what Aziraphale had already known. What he continued to know. What he’d probably never forget.

To him, Gabriel had been a father--a rather shitty one, but a father nonetheless. But to Gabriel, Aziraphale was nothing. He had no meaning, no necessary purpose in his life. He was simply there, until he wasn’t anymore. And Gabriel had no problem with the lack of his presence. Chances were, he celebrated with a glass of champagne and a fine dinner. He’d always had a thing for theatrics like that.

Thinking about it was slowly getting to Aziraphale. His stomach made a grumbly, irritated noise. Anxiety obviously getting the better of both his mind and body. 

“Angel? You alright? I’m sorry, love. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Crowley’s voice snaps what little reverie Aziraphale has left, and he leans on him for support. There’s a couple tears here and there, along with plenty of questions Crowley knows he can’t answer. (“Why did he hate me so much?” “What did I do wrong?” “Could I have ever been enough for him?”)

It hurts, honestly. Listening to his lover go on like that, so obviously torn in how he thinks of himself. All the therapy in the world wouldn’t entirely stitch up those still open wounds. And Crowley, ever a self-loathing bastard, couldn’t help but blame himself for picking at what had started to scab over.

“You’re worth so much more than you could ever imagine, angel. I promise.” He says once Aziraphale’s calmed down enough to think rationally. Or at least listen rationally. He doesn’t expect him to speak, not yet. So Crowley takes advantage of the open conversational space before he replies, going on and on about how much he loves him, how nobody else could fill the specific Aziraphale-Shaped-Hole he’d made in his heart. It was cheesy, nauseatingly saccharine, one might say. But the little speech worked well enough to convince Aziraphale that at least somebody in this dreadfully cruel world needed him. And that was all he wanted for the time being.

Things would get better, he assuredly decided. He just had to cling onto that little bit of faith he still had in himself. If Crowley could love him, then surely, there must be something there worth loving. And Gabriel, though his presence remained rotting in Aziraphale’s psyche, was long gone at this point. He never had to worry about seeing him again. That thought alone was enough motivation to keep going. He’d survive. He was strong enough. And Crowley would be with him every step of the way.

He was going to be alright.


	3. misfortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things go wrong when crowley takes a sexual initiative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for implied sexual abuse

“Did it ever seem weird to you?”

Aziraphale, who was curled up in a pleasantly tartan blanket cocoon, didn’t know how to respond. Crowley, who had just then returned from the kitchen, handed him a mug of perfectly-warm-but-not-too-hot cocoa. Their fingers brushed during the transaction, and Aziraphale, despite having been pushed up against the bedroom wall by his lover no more than five minutes ago, shivered at the contact. Crowley recoiled, a guilty look tearing at his features. Obviously, he still felt bad about the shitshow he’d just caused.

Really, he hadn’t meant to be that fast. That domineering. It was an accident. And Aziraphale had told him before that he liked the idea of Crowley taking charging, getting what he wanted from him when he wanted it. He’d had his informed consent! Realistically, he knew none of his actions would be held against him. That, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, he’d done nothing wrong. But his core still ached with the thought that his hands could have felt like they belonged to an entirely different person. Hands that Aziraphale knew too well, and not in the same manner he knew Crowley’s. Hands that hurt. Hands that left an unwelcome, everlasting mark.

Gabriel’s hands.

“Like, did you know what he was doing was wrong?” Crowley continued. Aziraphale had once, after another failed escapade not unlike the one they’d just attempted, explained that sometimes talking about his trauma during an episode helped him ground it in the past. So, here Crowley was, feeling awfully intrusive as he asked his still silent boyfriend questions that left a sick, nauseating feeling in his throat.

“I suppose some part of me may have.” Aziraphale finally answered, pausing to take a sip from his cocoa. “But it all just seemed so normal to me. That was all I knew, after all.”

“That must have been hard, angel.” Crowley fought with his brain to think of anything that’d come out as even remotely comforting. Aziraphale, taking in his hopelessly flustered, anxious demeanor, patted the mattress with hospitable warmth. Crowley gave into his wordless plea eagerly, plopping down next to him, and doing his best to resist manspreading as he sat. This was a delicate moment, he reminded himself.

“I just--” Aziraphale’s voice noticeably hardened. “it is hard, because I know nothing he did was meant to hurt me. He thought it was all normal too.”

Crowley, remembering he appreciated cuddling during times like this, quickly wrapped an arm around the other’s body. He pulled him in closer, close enough that he could press a kiss to the top of his head, bury his face in the blonde curls. Aziraphale smelled like warmth and the coconut body wash Crowley refused to use. (“It’s too soft for me, angel. I need to stay rough, edgy, keep up appearances, y’know!”) 

“It’s not like he was--you know--_purposely_ molesting me.” Aziraphale choked back what Crowley could only assume were tears as he spoke. God, what he would’ve given to rip Gabriel’s throat out. His angel didn’t deserve this.

“Darling, that’s exactly what he was doing.” 

“No--! I mean, he didn’t have any kind of sexual interest in me. He just--he probably got treated like that all the time when _he_ was a child. What if he was just as much of a victim as I am? What if I’m wrong for holding this against him?” Aziraphale rushed the words out, shaking by the time he was done with them. Crowley’s other arm curled ‘round his tummy, pulling him into his lap. 

“Sweetheart, sweetheart, shh. No, no you’re not doing anything wrong. He hurt you. He hurt you so much. You’re so good dear, so unfathomably good.” Crowley knew he was repeating himself, stumbling over each sentence as they made their way through angry, gritted teeth. Aziraphale recognized the anger wasn’t directed at him, and for that, Crowley was grateful. He was in too much of a state to stop himself from being obviously furious.

Aziraphale, starting to shake a little less, tucked his head into the safety of Crowley’s chest. Crowley worked on cooling down now that his boyfriend was as well, focusing on playing with the thick, fluffy hair presented so willingly for him to run his fingers through.

“I’m sorry, angel. You never deserved anything he did to you.” Crowley said after enough time had passed that he could speak without going on a forty-minute tangent about how he wanted to tear Gabriel apart limb from limb. Though, admittedly, he was pretty sure Aziraphale would have just thought the monologue more humorous than anything else.

“I know.” Aziraphale lifted his head to reply. He wiped his eyes dry of any remaining tears.

“I promise, I know.”


End file.
